


Trigger Murder

by theotherdesanta



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Don't read if you're triggered easily, Insanity, Mental Illness, Murder, Other, Triggered, drug overdose, twisted AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:05:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8750137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theotherdesanta/pseuds/theotherdesanta
Summary: Trevor's off his meds.
There is a corpse on the floor and a man at his front door.
Worst of all his facade is crumbling and everything is falling apart and his only way out is the bathroom cabinet .





	

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read this, just know I'm sorry and that I wasn't intending it to be this fucked up. 
> 
> But after going back to some of my old work I realized just how much I used to love writing dark, disturbing fanfiction about Trevor and gta v so here's some of that but with a newer, fresher vibe to it. 
> 
> This fic is gonna be a bit of a thinker so if you get confused, that's a little of the point.  
> \--
> 
> I'm gonna keep this note short so as always, I love you, thank you for the support and for continuing to support my ugly ass. 
> 
> Also...I'm currently dying because my gta hoodie is here and I gotta wait till Christmas. Waaaaaa.

The air is noticeably more humid than it was fifteen days ago, the tone in which his probation officer has recently used to address him is perhaps a touch stern than Earl's usual dry grumble of the English language but that could simply be Trevor convincing himself otherwise for the sake of projecting blame on another party rather than himself for his recent actions. 

Understandably, Trevor has never really adjusted to change all that well, even as a child he rebelled against whatever shifts took part in the family home and often found himself stuffing a small star patterned rucksack to the brim before squeezing his lanky frame through a slit in the bathroom window before dropping the ten feet down to the ground where he'd quickly dart off into the cold Canadian wilderness. 

Today shows no real difference as he makes a beeline for the closet, for the shoebox hidden between the frightening array of sexually abused plush toys sporting tell-tale holes in their stomachs and eye sockets, each with their own amount of dried semen and urine thickly crusting their once perfect fur, and a pile of zip-lock bags containing hand pistols, the barrels caked in a familiar red substance. 

He blinks back the heavy sting of tears threatening to erupt as Trevor snatches the box with both hands and claws away the lid, he wills himself to calm down, to force the wave of anxiety and fear penetrating his very being into the pit that is his fragmented subconscious long enough for him to find the prize possession he so frantically searches the trailer for and conclude what it is bothering him, put an end to the horror within his head and be able to see this is all just a mistake, he has no reason to cower as he does. 

However, the evidence Trevor craves does not relinquish anything, instead, the item he possesses brings up more questions and whilst he kneels in the gap created by the foot of the bed and his dresser drawer, his brain starts to unravel pieces of the web he has spent almost three decades painstakingly weaving together to form a seamless pattern that he has never once thought would have the ability to come apart. 

He blinks at the image in front of him, a photograph of a happy peaceful family with the words 'Wish you were here' scribbled in the top corner. 

He recognizes the handwriting, the perfect grammar, and cursive with which exposes the sender. 

Mandy, or Amanda as she tells her upper-class friends to lead them off the suspicion she has ever been near a skin joint nor worked the stage as a stripper, pleasing men and selling herself for the sake of easy money. 

But that is not exactly true, and being almost a full week off his medication, Trevor can't believe his lies either as he recalls only ever seeing her work the bar, buffing the counter and serving drinks, chatting off the ears of sober patrons as she was always too modest to be up with the other girls, showing the others her plump thighs and flat chest. 

Trevor wants to tell himself she has ulterior motives and always has, and this photograph is just another why she can rub her relationship with his best friend in his face, yet without the dull numbness of his Vitrophine to quiet whatever voices employ him not to do so, he is finding it near impossible to go through with his make-believe reasons for disliking the woman. 

His vision slopes down to the figures standing at her sides, Tracey and James, standing in front of their mother and both of them holding the hands of their respective partners. 

It is hard to accept that James is already 21 and married to his high school sweetheart Lamar Davis, the both of them leading successful careers in the computer and motor vehicle industries whilst James's sister Tracey is newly engaged to her boyfriend Franklin Clinton, having just reached 24 years of age and busy working with the city to renovate the ghetto area of LS, building a new school so children will have better education and moving the homeless shelter to a much larger place to give more poor souls a place to sleep, for a brief moment Trevor wonders why she chose not to continue her goal of obtaining a degree in psychology and live her dream of becoming a therapist, but a short stare into his broken mirror offers enough insight regarding her change of heart. 

 

Trevor feels the facade crumbling, watching the image of those he called his family twist and rearrange itself constantly. 

The people distort between miserable, sitting in a dim restaurant with Michael leaning into against his wife, forcing a smile with an arm slung across her shoulder whilst Jim and Tracey sit on either end of the table, grinning awkwardly as someone he can only assume is the waiter, takes their picture. 

But then it returns to the image of the four standing on the porch of their new Los Santos home, Amanda with her arms around Michael's waist, head rested on his shoulder in a heartfelt and loving embrace, Michael holding her with one arm in the air gesturing a wave. On the third step in front of their mother being James and Tracey posing with the men they love dearly and the prospect of success and family in their eyes, they're glowing and so full of hope, and it makes him physically sick. 

Trevor wants to see the two children as the lazy good-for-nothings he pictures them as, Jimmy laying on his bed telling numerous people on his multiplayer video game to go fuck or kill themselves, swearing blind and never leaving the confines of his darkened bedroom while Tracey sneaks various men into her own room for rigorous unprotected sex as she ignores her homework and fails to make any contribution to the family and then posts videos of her lovemaking on the internet for everyone to see. 

He wants to hear Amanda screaming at her husband to get off the couch and stop watching countless movies, to stop bringing home cheap women and even cheaper alcohol as she commits her own acts of hypocrisy by drunkenly inviting the gardener, pool boy, tennis coach and other types of working men into their home before violating her marital bed. 

Trevor needs to watch them fight over his presence, to watch Michael shout his wife down and defend his place in his best friend's life because after all, without him, what else has Michael got to live for? 

Why else does he stay if not to be surrounded by chaos? 

Trevor tells himself these things as he looks into the face of the man in the photograph, repeating behind still lips that what he see's is just a misunderstanding, a fuck-up caused by his lack of medication, by his illness being set free to ravage the threads holding what's left of his mind together. 

There is a knock at the door, Trevor doesn't have to open it to know who stands on the other side, he doesn't have to peek out of the bedroom and look through the screen door to see the face of the man about to stumble upon his drug deprived episode. 

Throwing the photograph and the rest of the box's contents back inside the closest Trevor gets on his hands and knees and hastily crawls toward the bathroom. 

Norton's voice envelopes the trailer as he makes it beyond the door and slams it shut, thankful he repaired it earlier that day.  
“Trevor, Trevor, I hear you in there” Norton says, rapping at the screen. “This is important” 

Pulling himself to his feet, Trevor starts rifling through his medicine cabinet. 

“The agency knows her last call went to you, wherever you're hiding her you need to let her go” 

In one sweep Trevor every half empty pill bottle lying in the sink, with shaky fingers he takes two and rips off the lids, chugging back the little pink pills and swallowing them as now tears are beginning to spill down his puffy, tanned cheeks. 

“I can't protect you this time, Trevor. If Martin wants to press charges, hell, they might skip sending you back to that mental institution altogether and take your ass straight to Bolingbroke!” Norton's voice 

He doesn't know what he is ingesting but one thing's for sure, by the end of the other one's monologue Trevor will be part way into a lethal seizure, with any luck, he won't be alive to hear the sirens coming to whisk him to the nearest medical centre to have his stomach pumped. 

“Trevor, as your social worker I am asking you to come to this door and tell me where Patricia Madrazo is! I know she was here and for all I know she could still be! I understand these last ten years have been difficult, but do you really want to throw all this progress down the drain? You were doing so well up until now. Just open the door and let me see if she's in there. If not, I can inform her husband and none of this will go on your record” David rests his head on the screen door, sighing as he listens to the clatter of plastic and Trevor's rash breathing. 

Trevor doesn't respond, he simply continues gulping down bottle after bottle of medication until he's finished every bottle in the cabinet and then unsteadily leans over and unlocks the bathroom door to stumble out into the minuscule entryway. 

With tired, sore eyes he spots Norton at the door, taking a breath he turns his attention to the body on the living room floor, the decaying corpse of his part-time carer Patrica Madrazo, the sweet elderly Hispanic woman Trevor has spent many months getting to know and respect in the run up to her untimely death. 

Trevor quietly mumbles an apology to her stiff, foul smelling frame, in the heat of Sandy Shores and the tin-like shack he has her in, her body has already started to show signs of rot, bodily fluids have seeped out of her and onto the dirty, magazine laden carpet, god only knows how Trevor can stand it but for all intense and purposes he does, easily. 

If only she hadn't advised he stop his meds, if only she'd been smart enough to realize he was better on them than off them, if so, she would still be alive to go home to her husband, and to come back and assist Trevor with his minor needs. 

“Ain't your fault, sweetheart. You were just tryin' to help me” Giving her corpse one last sad glance, Trevor sits on the couch and waits for his medication to have its effect, leaving Norton to try and open the door by either picking the lock or just kicking against it. 

It isn't until thirty minutes later that Norton finally has the door open with help from local law enforcement, himself and three other officers attack the door with a combination of feet and with a sharp wham it swings open, welcoming them into the horrific scene of a putrid dead woman and a mentally unstable Trevor Philips suffering an induced seizure on the couch. 

There is more waiting as Norton makes the call for an ambulance crew to come take Philips to the hospital, he knows it might very well be too late to save him by the amount of white foam coming out of his gaping maw but he can't return to the agency without having tried. 

He stands next to Trevor as paramedics check him over, concentrating on the small signs of life he offers through the pulse in his chubby wrists before inevitably going into shock and having another bout of seizures. 

After a few minutes, he is bundled into the ambulance and driven to the nearest hospital for treatment.  
\---

By Gods good graces, Trevor survives and is discharged after a number of days on bed-rest and testing since Doctors wanted to make certain it was a drug overdose. 

Sadly, but to also no surprise, upon release, he is taken into police custody where they question and eventually arrest him in regards to Patricia Madrazo's death. 

Trevor is currently awaiting trial and is being held in the Sandy Shores mental institution until further notice. 

If there is one thing the man can say about being locked up in such a place, it's that he is grateful for the padded walls, the bleached white cells with little light and few to no windows in the entirety of the building. 

Where he is allowed out for exercise in a courtyard all of his own or for the hour long session with a therapist where he is cuffed to a chair or strapped to his bed, he is happy to not see his reflection in the glass, they even removed the bird bath so he won't be upset by the image in the water. 

If he has to say anything, it's that Trevor is happier here than he will ever be in a prison cell where the risk of seeing himself is high and his prescription meds are on lockdown. 

The same can be said about the facility itself, however when he is in dire need of medicating, the staff don't fight, they agree and hand it over without a second thought. 

In his padded cell, he is Trevor Philips, there is no reflection of blue eyes and soft brown hair telling him otherwise. 

He is 43 years old, born to a mother and unknown jizz donor, he has a brother who is long dead, and a family in Los Santos wanting to visit him yet have been told to keep their distance for his sanities sake. 

In here, He weighs 150 pounds, even if the scales say he ranges in the 200's.  
In here, He is a simple man, who enjoys meth and guns and beer.  
In here, He is a man starting a global empire.  
In here, He is the man with a muscular frame with amazing thighs.  
In here, He is the man who mocks gender roles by wearing curve hugging dresses.  
In here, He is NOT the man who betrayed him ten years ago in snowy North Dak-YANKTON.

Trevor shakes his head wildly for a moment, scolding himself for his screw-up.

Finally, taking a break, he looks at the pill in his open palm that a kind nurse has just given him and shoves it into his mouth without another thought, gulping it down dry before returning to his motivational monologue as said nurse stares at him through the doorway, offering the poor thing a sympathetic smile as she foolishly takes his youthful, plump-cheeked appearance for weakness. 

The memory of viewing his medical file drifting to the back of her mind as doubt fills her sense and causes her to wonder, how could such a sweet man be a ruthless psychopath. 

She suspects that with baby blues like his, the elderly woman simply dropped from a heart attack. 

The nurse knows she would, and casually walks off whilst Trevor starts humming Radio Gaga. 

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to leave kudos, comment and tell me what you think of these sorts of ideas. 
> 
> Also...I'm very very very sorry. 
> 
> Bye. 
> 
> PS: don't hate me, I'm crying more than you are.


End file.
